Putting the Pieces Back Together
by Skalidra
Summary: When Jason goes in to break up a drug-making operation, he gets a lot more of a fight than he bargained for. But Midnighter is there at the end to put him back together, even if he's not totally sure he wants the help. - Hints of Jason/Midnighter.
Another 100 prompts! Number 76, 'Broken Pieces'. I was so absurdly happy that someone asked for Jay/Midnighter, by the way. So pleased. (And a small note that I'm not actually accepting any requests at the moment. I do it in short bursts, and I have enough to work through right now. You can watch my Tumblr for when I do ask for them though.) Can I keep doing one of these a day? Probably not, but we'll see. XD Enjoy!

 **Warnings** for: some semi-graphic violence and then treating of said injuries.

* * *

It's one hard landing at just the wrong angle that does it. Jason has the restraint not to scream, but the flood and fire of pain as something in his shoulder gives and it slides in and out of place still knocks the breath out of him with a snarl.

He lies still for a moment too long, forces himself into movement and considers the idea of just getting the hell out because he might have bitten off more than he can chew. One group of drug-making baddies he could have taken out, no problem. But one group of drug-making baddies that are apparently making drugs that give you knock-off superpowers at the cost of some definite insanity?

That's not what he bargained for.

This is why he needs updates on the cases happening in Gotham, Bruce. Not to take advantage to make some quick cash or pick and choose the ones he wants to see dead, but because he might have been a little bit more cautious about crashing through the door if he'd known the group of twenty or so guys might have superpowers. Generally, he considers that important information to know. Just a little bit.

He's got three guys with enhanced strength, four more who seem to shrug off bullets with not much more than little grunts of pain, two that are moving too fast to be normal, one who can't seem to stop his fingertips from bursting into flames, and another with little sparks of electricity curling off his skin with snaps and pops of sound. Plus another six still standing out of the guys who apparently — fingers crossed — haven't taken whatever the hell this drug is and seem normal.

He shakes off the pain, considering if he can just shove his shoulder back in place for now so he can move his arm at least a little bit. Probably not, it feels more serious than that and he hasn't got the time to breathe anyway. These guys aren't the smartest, but usually you don't have to be smart when you have numbers and powers on your side. Rushing him is working out just fine for them so far, since he's trying to respect Bruce's golden rule at least while he's in Gotham so he wasted a good amount of bullets on knee and shoulder shots before realizing that it wasn't working the way it should.

By the time he really got what was happening it was a little too late to retry the initial ambush that would have given him fairer numbers. With numbers like this, even with normal guys, the ambush is what makes it possible. He usually can't go toe to toe with twenty guys and expect to come out just fine, but if half of those are down before they even know what's going on? Then it's a fairer fight.

This is not turning out very well.

His arm hangs by his side, and that apparently spurs them into doing exactly what he was hoping they wouldn't and just going after him.

When his grapnel gets knocked out of his working hand and he gets flung into a wall by one of the strength guys in exchange for the attempt at escape, respect stops being enough to hold him back. These are people making experimental drugs that turn them into crazed, super-powered freaks, and he is not selfless enough to let them kill him just to uphold a rule he doesn't even believe in.

Which doesn't make things that much easier. They go down, but he's still only got one working arm which means he can't brace for the recoil of the gun, which means that he has to take one shot at a time and that's just not enough. He's not Roy, he can't aim and fire in a tiny fraction of a second and expect to hit every single time. He's good, but not that good.

He works on evening out the numbers first, taking out the smaller guys who don't have any power, and also are the only ones thinking rationally which could be seriously dangerous. Then the ones he can actually shoot and kill, which are the strength, the fire, and the electricity. He doesn't come out of it clean.

By the time he's down to the four bulletproof guys and the two that are moving a little too fast to reliably hit, he's a mess of bruises and the pain is driving him too quickly towards exhaustion. He's avoided any other major injuries, but only barely. His helmet is cracked, the left side of the inside display fritzing out, and he's bleeding from a few long gashes along his back. Turns out that the combination of super strength and a decent knife carves right through his armor.

He's down to a single gun; reloading one handed was not easy, and keeping hold of the gun and clip while making sure no one was hitting him hard enough to end the fight made it pretty damn difficult. Using anything but the gun means letting go of it, and honestly, if a bullet won't get past these guys' skin, what are the chances that a knife or an explosion is going to do it?

Which remind him of one of the weapons at his disposal, limited as it is.

He runs, maximizing the space between him and the rest of the people after him, and shoves the gun away into its holster. He's definitely not giving that up if he's got any other option. Then he lifts his working hand, hits the release for his helmet, catches it as it falls, and twists to fling it back towards the rest of them. One of the idiots even catches it with a grin, like he thinks it's just Jason throwing whatever he's got to slow them down for a fraction of a second.

Which is when he hits the detonator, and it blows up in the guy's hands. He's still close enough to feel the shockwave, and it staggers him a step as he shields his eyes from the light of the explosion. It's hard to see exactly what happens, and he keeps moving and doesn't stop to check. If he can just get outside then there's his bike, or he can lose them in the alleys. He can lose anyone in the alleys of Gotham except maybe the great bastard himself; they were his home for a long time.

Then there's the rapid sound of too-fast footsteps and he jerks to the side in just enough time to dodge one of almost-speedsters sliding past him in a tackle. But there's a second body waiting for him, big arms circling his torso and dragging him back. The breath gets shoved out of his lungs as the owner of the arms squeezes, and he flails for just a second before getting his feet under him and jerking against the hold. His shoulder shrieks in pain at the pressure, and he bares his teeth and does it again, trying to get loose enough that it doesn't feel like the guy might crack his ribs even through the armor.

He gets his working hand on his knife, stabs backwards into a side and feels it sink deep. That makes the guy let go, but not in time to stop the sharp impact of a fist across his cheek from one of the too-fast ones. He staggers, and then a second hit to the same side knocks him to the floor where he lands squarely on his dislocated shoulder.

This time he can't help the sharp burst of a scream, his back arching even as he curls up to protect the injured limb on pure instinct. Instinct is what makes him try to move too, to dig his fingers in against the concrete and look up and get a handle on what the situation is.

The explosion was more effective than he thought it would be, is the first thing he notices. One speedster and one tough-skinned guy are still standing. The two other semi-invulnerable ones are on the floor where he detonated his helmet, looking scorched and unconscious, but maybe not quite dead. The other speedster is the one he just stabbed, and that guy's on the floor too, clutching at the blade with shaking hands.

The two still standing are advancing on him, and he can't get up fast enough to stop them. He blocks the first kick, leaves himself open to a heel to the gut that makes him gag and jerk inwards. A hand grabs him by the side of the head and slams it into the floor. Once, twice, and he feels his teeth slam together over the inside of his cheek and split it open. The taste of blood fills his mouth as the hand lets go, as a kick hits his knee hard enough to really hurt, and make him relieved his legs are in the way of his stomach. Bruises he can handle; internal damage is a lot harder.

The kick to his side cracks something, and he lets loose a harsh shout into the arm curled over his head and neck. That hand comes back, grabs his upper arm and wrenches it up. He's too heavy for whichever of them it is to really lift him, but they manage to pull him about a half a foot off the ground before letting go again. He'd swear that dropping him back on his shoulder isn't purposeful, but god damn does it hurt. He shakes, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to center for a second, tries to call on all of his training to get him the hell out of this.

Which is what makes him take a quick glance up past his arm, and see the one with enhanced skin coming back with a bloody knife in hand. His knife.

Training overrides panic, and he moves. He twists a leg out, catches one of the speedster's ankles and topples him, reaches for his gun in the same movement. No one not especially trained for it can dodge while falling, and the enhanced speed is useless when he puts a bullet in the man's skull before it ever hits the ground. He turns the gun towards the other man, but he's too close, knife already coming down and he's got no time to aim. He drops it, raises his arm to catch the double-handed drop of the knife towards his throat.

One arm isn't meant to stop two, and the best he manages is to divert the aim and slow it down. The knife only carves into the top of his dislocated shoulder instead of going through his neck, and he chokes through the pain but doesn't let it stop him. Can't.

The last guy is straddling his waist, so he curls his legs up and hooks his calves in front of the guy's throat, wrenching him backwards. The knife goes too, flailing through the air and catching in his right calf, tearing a long gash up it that makes him let go automatically. He scrambles away as fast as he can with just the one arm, finds the gun with a lucky and an outstretched arm that just barely manages to grab it. His side screams almost as much as his shoulder, but he fights it down and wraps his fingers around the black metal.

That last guy is snarling, lunging, and it feels like slow motion as he raises the gun. Aims at an eye because those can't be protected. Fires. Hits.

The guy crashes down next to him, knife clattering to the floor, and the gun drops from his fingers as he trembles. It's adrenaline, fear, and pain that propels him, but he manages to crawl about a half a dozen feet off to the side before he mostly collapses. His breath is coming thin and shaky, and the streak of blood he's leaving behind is pretty worrying when he catches a glimpse of it.

He twists onto his side, bracing his working hand against the floor and spitting a mouthful of blood onto it before resting his forehead against the cool concrete. Just for a minute, just for long enough to catch his breath and then he can see about actually getting himself out of this place.

Then there's the tap of boots against the concrete at his back, and he jerks his head up with a snarl already curling his mouth.

"Easy, kid," a deep voice murmurs, and black fills most of his vision as the man sinks to one knee.

For one crazy moment his mind says Batman, cuing off black leather, a cowl, and the flare of what at first looks like a cape. But then things click into place, and the leather isn't a cape it's a trench coat, the gloved hand touching his shoulder has slight spikes built into the knuckles, the stubble on the visible jaw is a lighter brown-red, not black…

"Midnighter," he breathes, and he's surprised to realize how painful and difficult it is to speak.

"The one and only," Midnighter says with a small grin. "Come on, kid, let's get you out of here."

He can barely protest the arms curling underneath his body, lifting him like he doesn't weigh anything at all, and when his head rests against a leather covered chest it smells familiar and safe enough to make him not try and struggle. It's been a long time since anyone could carry him like this except Kori, and to an old, buried part of him it feels like coming home. In a strange way he's not really sure he wants to look too closely at. He'll chalk it up to blood loss and pain and call it a day.

"Wait," he gets out, when Midnighter starts to turn. "Knife. 'S mine."

His eyes are closed, so he misses the details, but he can feel the shift as Midnighter moves and then braces his back against a knee to let go with one arm. There's the scrape of metal against concrete before there's a slight jostling at his left thigh, where the sheath for the knife is, and Midnighter is lifting him again and turning away.

"Door," that low voice commands, and he can feel the rumble of it through the chest he's pressed against. "This is gonna be unpleasant. Sorry, kid."

The nausea that digs into his stomach as they step through what has to be one of Midnighter's portals makes him grimace, but he just pushes his face against that leather and breathes in, shoving the discomfort away. He's taken worse, and the nausea isn't much in the face of the pain that he's in. Even the pain isn't nearly as bad as he's been through before.

Midnighter sets him down on something flat and with give; it feels like a couch. Then two gloved hands are brushing his neck, slipping down to push at his jacket.

"What're you doing?" he mumbles, prying his eyes open.

The cowl's been pushed back, and Midnighter meets his gaze with a small grin. "Patching you up, kid. You could use a few stitches, and that shoulder needs to be put back in place."

He squints, gasps in pain when the jacket gets pulled down his back and the mentioned shoulder is jostled. "Why?" he manages, through his gritted teeth.

"Because it's pretty generally bad to leave dislocated limbs out of their sockets," Midnighter teases, lifting his hips a few inches with one hand and pulling the jacket off the ends of his arms with the other. "Because you need it, and I was around."

"Don't need it," he grumbles. "I'll be fine on my own. I'll handle it." The hands return, working on his gloves and then moving to the armor on his chest. "Bullshit," he finally manages to put together, narrowing his eyes in Midnighter's direction. "You were just around Gotham? Sure. What's the truth?"

The small grin gets a little bigger, and then Midnighter — kneeling on the floor next to where he's laid out on a couch — shifts up and carefully pulls him up so his back is against the arm of the couch. It hurts, but he grits his teeth together again and weathers it, tilting his head back and trying to ignore the pounding ache in his skull.

"The truth is I stalk you bat-kids when I've got nothing better to do," Midnighter says, while getting his armor loose and pulling it off of him.

"You what?" His voice comes out more strained than he'd like, and when he rolls his head down Midnighter is starting to laugh.

The armor hurts a lot more coming off than the jacket did; it's closer to his shoulder and has to pull all the way down. Midnighter carefully holds his arm still as it does, minimizing the pain to some extent. The armor gets dropped aside, and he jerks a little bit at the feeling of those gloved hands pushing his undershirt up his chest until he remembers the slices on his back and the top of his shoulder. This is going to have to be off for Midnighter to get to them.

Midnighter is careful about it at least, even as he talks. "Yeah, well, can you blame me? You guys are some seriously badass pieces of ass; I'm a fan." Then those brown eyes meet his, and Midnighter's hand almost imperceptibly squeezes down on his good shoulder on the way past. "You guys get in a lot of trouble; there's not always someone there to get you out of it. I've got the time and the means, so I help out sometimes. When you guys need it."

The shirt obscures his vision for a moment, and he bites back on a cry of pain at that last stretch of his shoulder. It leaves him panting, faintly trembling, and Midnighter's hand on his other shoulder, the feeling of the leather glove against his skin, is a familiar thing to focus on. There's silence for a moment, and then Midnighter shifts up, sitting down beside him on the narrow bit of the couch left over. The gloves come off, and he shivers when both those hands touch his bad shoulder.

"This is going to hurt like a bitch. You ready, kid?"

He reaches forward, curls a hand in Midnighter's coat and gives a small snarl. "Act like this is the first fucking time I've dislocated a shoulder. Just do it."

Pressure, a sharp crack, and he throws his head back and screams at the ceiling to let all that pain have an outlet. His hand curls into the leather coat tightly enough that it creaks under his grip, and gentle hands are sliding to cup the back of his neck and carefully hold his arm across his stomach.

"Easy, kid," Midnighter murmurs, "easy. I've got you. It's done. Just breathe for me, Jason. Breathe."

He shakes, but leans into the solid grip of the hand on his neck, flexing his hand in Midnighter's coat and slowly fighting the pain back down to manageable levels. Finally he manages to hiss, "Fine. 'M fine."

Midnighter keeps his arm held to his stomach, holding his shoulder at one level so it doesn't really move and the pain is minimal. "Uh-huh. Let's just say I believe you, shall we? I'm going to give you a shot of painkillers, and then get to work stitching you up. You can just keep telling me how fine you are while I make sure you don't bleed too much more."

He doesn't protest, welcomes the sting of the needle after Midnighter shifts sideways and reaches for the first aid kit that's open — and way above standard supplies — on the coffee table beside them. He doesn't fight Midnighter easing him forward either, getting him to lean down so that those broad hands can start work on the slices on his back. The feeling dulls after a few minutes, and he breathes a little easier after that, staying still and quiet as he can manage.

Until he murmurs, "Why didn't you step in?"

There's not even a slight hesitation in the progress of the needle, and just a moment of silence before Midnighter answers. "Your fights aren't my business," he says in a quiet rumble. "If I knew they were going to kill you, yeah, I'd interfere, but your work is your business and no one else's. I definitely wasn't invited, and you came out on top in the end anyway. Would you have wanted me to step in and save you from a beating?"

He thinks about it. "No," he finally decides, and then glances to the side to meet Midnighter's gaze. "Thanks, for letting me handle it. Even if you are being a creepy-as-fuck stalker."

Midnighter laughs, and the sound is dark and rough enough to make him shiver all over again. "Yeah, that's fair. I mean, you could argue that I'm patching you up just to get my hands on your skin. Which is damn nice, by the way. I envy that redhead partner of yours."

He snorts, then winces at how it makes his ribs move. "Roy and I are just friends." The look Midnighter gives him is wholly unbelieving, and he gives a crooked smirk and adds, "Mostly."

"Well then I'll just be mostly envious," Midnighter teases.

He shakes his head, winces again at a harder pull of the stitches, and then lowers his head another inch. "So why do this? You can't be stalking every single person out there that catches your interest."

"You make it sound like there are hundreds." Midnighter ties off the last of the line of stitches, moves on to disinfecting the second slice and then stitching that as well. "Nah, honestly it's because your damn brother can't stop getting himself into trouble and he's really bad at getting out of it. Now it's just kinda extended to the rest of you too. Sorry about that."

"So we're what, like wards to you or something? Cause I've already got one dad-figure in leather armor with a cowl and a rough voice and I definitely don't need two."

That gets him a rough, almost surprised snort from Midnighter, and he looks over in time to catch the edge of a wide grin. "Oh hell no, kid. About the last thing I want to be to you is your dad. I mean," a touch of wicked to the edge of that grin, "unless you're into that kind of thing."

He chokes a little bit, coughs out a breath and then drags in another before he can answer. Somehow, it comes out more honest than he meant to be. "Not as far as I know," instead of a simple, 'no.'

Midnighter laughs again. "Well I'm all for experimentation, but maybe sometime when you aren't bleeding on my couch?"

"Yeah," he mumbles, "sorry about that." And then it clicks in his head and he asks, "Wait, are you asking me on a date?"

Midnighter shrugs, finishes the second line of stitches and moves to the gash in the top of his shoulder. "Hey, if you want a date I'm down, but I was really just thinking sex. Didn't think you were on the market for anything serious."

"I don't even know you," he says, shaking his head a bit.

"Want to?" Midnighter immediately counters, with a smirk.

He just stares for a second, then manages to say, "Jesus, you're fucking confident." All he gets in answer is a slightly wider smirk, and he finally echoes it with his own. "I'll think about it. No promises. Think you can drop me back off in Gotham when you're done here? I've gotta have some words with the jackass who got me in this mess."

"Sure."

"Can you get in the Batcave?" he asks, out of almost morbid curiosity.

"Never tried." Midnighter grins. "Want to find out?"

The answer, as it turns out, is yes. When he's all patched up and back in his armor, arm held in a makeshift sling that Alfred will definitely replace, Midnighter opens a Door that leads straight into the Cave.

He stalks in, Midnighter casually strolling after him, and ignores the alarms going off as he shouts across the room, "B, when you have people making drugs that give superpowers, I need to know!"

Bruce is partially frozen where he's standing in front of the computer, cowl on but a bunch of information still up on the screens. Jason strides right up to him and gets into the argument, showing off the sling and the coloring bruises on the left side of his face.

Midnighter smirks, catching the appearance of an elderly, well-dressed man from behind one of the steel half-walls partitioning the area. The man looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and pointedly shifts his grip on the pretty large gun held in both hands to raise it a little higher.

He gives a small grin, tilts his head towards Jason, and then steps back through the Door.


End file.
